


sadderdaze are not the same (as they used to be)

by ShipperTrash140109



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, Coping, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, author makes an inappropriate joke within first sentence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 12:47:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17044034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShipperTrash140109/pseuds/ShipperTrash140109
Summary: Collins knew Farrier would want him to move on, would tell him to get off his ‘argyle-kilted fuckin arse’ and get a job, but he couldn’t, he felt like everything reminded him of things he didn’t want to remember. Like everything outside this house would set him off.akaCollins has a hard time coping after Farrier goes MIA, but the Dawson's are functional enough for the three of them





	sadderdaze are not the same (as they used to be)

**Author's Note:**

> This only exists because I wanted to make a going down joke, so I apologise for sad!Collins.

_“Fortis one, I’m going down”_

_“That’s not funny, Collins”_

_Collins rolled his eyes, sitting back on his heels, drawing a long sigh before looking at the other pilot “aye dunno, aye thought it was a wee bit funny.” The scolding had made him hesitant, but after meeting Farrier’s eyes for a moment, he shrugged and returned to going down on the other man. Farrier deciding not to chase the crude joke any further._

Now, sitting in his dingy little house (shack), staring into nothing, a cigar between his fingers, lit but untouched as per usual. The thought of the joke made anger boil up in his chest, he’d been so fucking oblivious to how in danger they all were. Now, with Farrier… it was insufferable, but it’d been next to the only thing he’d been able to think of ever since he was discharged (after nearly drowning in one, having to fly a plane sent him into violent hysterics).

Peter, the boy that had saved him, came in sometimes. Mostly just to check he was still breathing, maybe drop in some essentials, sometimes he sat down with him, talked about life after losing George (that they had in common). Collins always stayed quiet, preferred to bottle things up and eventually exploding, for those times he made sure the house was empty, and that nobody could hear him curse every single fucking god there was.

Collins knew Farrier would want him to move on, would tell him to get off his ‘argyle-kilted fuckin arse’ and get a job, but he couldn’t, he felt like everything reminded him of things he didn’t like. Like everything outside this house would set him off.

Peter told him the same thing, albeit a bit nicer, but would still drop the paper on his knees, open coincidentally on the job page. Not unlike the way he was now. The blond had slipped in sometime between Collins fuming at his past sense of humour and cursing mental Farrier, the days paper and some miscellaneous food items in the others hands.

“You can’t bring him back by sitting here doing nothing” Peter stated, before moving to the kitchen and putting the foodstuffs away, his bright red sweater annoyingly cheerful amongst the darkness of the house.

“yea well, doing things won’t bring him back either.”

“You don’t even know that he’s dead”

That, now that struck a chord. Collins felt himself getting to his feet before he even realised what he was doing, Peter rounding just in time to get a face full of angry blond Scotsman, “You don’t get to say tha’” he growled, but the other boy didn’t even flinch.

“They never found a body, they never even found his second dog tag, Collins. George is dead, there’s a body, there’s a grave. I’d be glad if I were you, you have the smallest chance that he’s still alive!” Peter’s eyes were red rimmed already, and there was a drop of guilt in Collins for a moment before his stubbornness took back over and he swallowed thickly.

“Because aye have it”

“what?”

Collins repeated himself, not meeting Peter’s eyes as he fishes it out of his pocket, none the worse for wear, Farrier’s details stamped out plain as day, “He gave it to me before we took off. Said he wouldn’t need it.”

Peter was silent for a few long moments before he murmured ‘oh god’ and wrapped his arms around Collins’ shoulders. They remained like that, bathing in each other’s loss, the edges of the dog tag digging into Collin’s palm, the cigar still burning in the other room, filling the house with the smell of smoke, of Farrier.

* * *

 

A week later, Collins is being dragged around town by Peter and Mr Dawson, Farriers dog tag in his pocket to ground him. It was only a matter of time before the decision was made to get the hermit off his argyle-kilted arse. Apparently, Mr Dawson knew of some folks willing to hire hardworking veterans.

So, Collins let them put him on display, let the managers question him, consider him. _He’s young, not too worse for wear, he was RAF for god’s sake, no water? Best not ask._ Surprisingly, a fella who owns the local corner store decides he’s willing to take a risk in hiring a ticking time bomb.

The first few days, Peter has to literally drag Collins to work, has to see Collins doing work before he goes about his own day. After that the blond ex-pilot manages to pull himself together more, he still burns cigars like incense and he still sits in the living room of an afternoon thinking about the F word, still cuts his fingers from gripping the dog tag too hard. Though it’s easier, only a bit, but it’s something, he’s got income, he’s got something else to occupy parts of his mind, that’s a hell of a lot better than what he’d been prepared for.

“I’m proud of you Collins” Peter said one afternoon from behind his mug, Collins had frowned for a moment, before asking why. “You know why.”

They had faded back into companionable silence when the house filled suddenly with a loud, incessant ringing, both blond males jumping before Peter sighed and pulled himself to his feet. Collins heard him answer with ‘Collins household’ and then continue ‘yea he’s here, why?’ pause. Peter and Collins made eye contact across the room, the older male couldn’t make out the look on his face. “Collins, it’s for you.”

Standing out front of the huge white building, Collins could feel his heart beating a tattoo into his ribs, could hardly breath around the heavy thumping as they started up the steps and in past the huge doors.

Peter did most of the talking, if not all of it. Collins gripped the dog tag in his pocket hard, the lady on the phone’s voice echoing through his head ‘ _we have a pilot relinquished from a German prison camp here that we’re unable to identify, would you mind coming down to see if you can recognize him?’_

Eventually he and Peter stopped at a room, the nurse that was leading them gingerly poking her head through the door before letting them in. What they saw ripped all the air from Collins’ lungs, there sat a ghost, staring at the blond with a look that Collins knew as ‘you finally got off your argyle-kilted arse.’

**Author's Note:**

> come hassle me on [tumblr](https://hardleeharlee.tumblr.com/)


End file.
